Industriously looking to end the single life and sharing stories along the way

Single Life

If you’re concerned about building romantic chemistry with someone, here’s a tip: FIGHT. A more poetic phrasing would be to say that light only comes from heat. (Perhaps you’re familiar with Heracleitus’ criticism of Homer’s pacifism.) Every conversation is performance art; think of it like composing music. Most memorable pieces underscore the fine line between tension and release; pain and pleasure; suspense and idyll. Harmless disputation charges adrenaline glands and endorphin levels, augmenting your appeal. To be sure, I’m not advising you to go all Donald Trump 2016 on them but if your conversation has been nothing but agreeable and innocent, you’ve only proven one thing and one measly thing only; that you’re safe. No one wants “safe” on the first few dates. “Safe” pays the bills and picks up the kids from soccer practice, sure, but are you there yet? Hopefully not. Instead, everyone wants to ride the bull before they let it graze their pasture. So, how do you instigate a little dissonance?

Say you’re at a diner and they order apple pie to go with their afternoon coffee. Now, sweet apple pie may be your favorite dessert in all existence. In fact, your Aunt Edna (bless her heart) may have expounded to you the delicacies of picking the freshest apples from the lush orchards of upstate New York, constructing the perfect crust, and sharing with you her secret weapon that sets her recipe apart (lemon zest?). You may, at first, want to unleash, as if in dissertation form, all these warm memories of loving apple pie as a kid. Or how your Aunt Edna (bless her heart, again) was the best pie maker in all the world and how your date would have savored every bite of her pie and how you would love to show her the recipe yourself one day so that Aunt Edna’s memory could live on through her perfected palate.

But no, not today.

Today, you fucking hate that vile shit. In fact, how could they even order such a ghastly dish to ruin their coffee on such a sunny day? You were actually having a pleasant date until THEY had to invidiously bankrupt it. Can you believe their insolvency? This is their response to your comportment? Jesus! Have they no common decency to themselves or – at the very least – human courtesy to YOU?!?!?

No, today you will disgrace that apple pie in front of the very makers whom labored tirelessly over it, hoping to serve it to an abject customer until your dying breath. Then, and only then, will your date engulf their overpriced pie. But even in that seemingly “safe” moment, they will think of your mortified self. Oh yes, yes they will.

And that is why they’ll text you back the next day. And that is why you’ll get another date.

Excuse the sleazy title but I’d like to offer some counterweight to the common tone of my narrative and provide a list of male shortcomings. There will be “basket of deplorables” level generalizations but I trust you’ve come prepared with a grain of salt and an internal laugh track waiting to be cued.

In reverse order:

13) Female orgasm is superior. Depending on whom you ask and how they classify their O moments, there are anywhere between 3 and 11 different types of female orgasms. Not only that but – on average – men have shorter orgasms (5-22 seconds) compared to their female counterparts (~20 seconds). And while I’ve been the cause of many, the aftereffects never cease to amaze me. The first time I heard “Holy shit, I can’t even move right now” after a long session, I asked her if I should call an ambulance. And I was serious.

12) Suck at staying in touch. Some men don’t buy into the whole “brotherly love” culture and unless you’re sharing some activity with your boys (e.g., baseball league), you’ll inadvertently lose touch with those once close to you. In short, we often disservice ourselves and our relationships.

11) Stupid immaturity. Often disguised as boyish and endearing, our silliness can get us into trouble as an adult. My cryptic password at work used to be BigTittedBJs69. (I was in one of my sarcastic moods.) It wasn’t a problem until I got locked out of my desktop and had to forward ISD my access credentials so they could unlock my account. “I’m sorry, was that Big Titted Bee Jays Seventy-nine? Oh, I see. It’s sixty-nine. Gotcha.” #LessonLearned

10) Moreover, we squander our time. Whether it was Wilde or Shaw that came up with “Youth is wasted on the young,” it comes as no surprise that this tidbit was uttered by a male. Sometimes it’s the unwillingness to advance to the next step in a relationship, other times it’s becoming complacent with regular sex, or perhaps it’s overstaying your welcome at a job where you enter blowjob-related passwords everyday. Some of us aren’t future-oriented and we’re the worse for it.

9) Misunderstanding people; women in particular. Although not everyone is easy to read, most sensible humans exhibit repetitive patterns. Patterns can be elucidated and used to predict tones of behavior. It’s with this that I hope we can extirpate idiotic gibes like “What are you, on your period?” Or “You should lose some weight” and so on. This goes further than uttering dumb shit; it’s the injustice of not bothering to understand those around you.

We spend innumerable hours fixated on lofty ideas that it comes as a great relief – not to mention surprise – to relish in moments of ineffable and tangible beauty. Why is it that we can’t simply frame these mental photographs? The mere attempt to do so would make us all abject, like an actor misplacing his lines on opening night. To truly sink into these ephemeral periods, without the aid of psilocybin, one requires another person to uphold and testify to this feeling of ecstasy. After all, love is a doing word.

I have this image in my head that I can’t shake; something that would soften even the most broad-backed misanthropic pessimist – a role I’m no stranger to. The context of the image can be summed up by a quote from the Metta Sutta. (If you’ve never experienced this objective sentiment, give it time.)

“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world — above, below, and across — unhindered, without ill will, without enmity.” – The Buddha

What I see in this image is nothing but the geographical curvature of a lover’s hip. An intoxicating instrument for lust, no doubt, but in this state, I’m only studying the arc and bow of someone I love, as if I were sketching it down to print. How do the shadows cast depth? Can I smell the oils on her skin? Am I able to mold this image in my mind before grazing my fingers gently over her body? Part of dining out at an upscale restaurant is feasting your eyes on your meal before you actually feast. This is that moment and I intend to seize it to the best of my ability.

‘Tis that festive time of the year in America where everyone dresses up, feasts on cheap milk chocolate, downs several cocktails, stumbles back to their homes, empties out their cornucopias, followed by their stomachs. Just me? Well, I’m sure Merman didn’t make it to the bathroom in time too.

For all you part-time office dwellers, today was the perfect opportunity to affront your smug boss by covering them with a thousand post-it notes. If you didn’t, it’s still Halloween week, you can still get away with it if done with enough conviction. Awkwardly get the closet key from Sharlene the hoarder, grab ten dozen packages of post-its, half the HR team, and ambush your boss in his/her corner office. Do it. Do it while you still can dammit! This week is about showing your true self.

Several years ago, I went to a college Halloween party where an old acquaintance had the gall to dress up as a six-foot penis. He was the ex-boyfriend of a good friend and after a few drinks she vehemently vented to me about how he cheated and appeared emotionally devoid during most of their relationship. While consolation would have been appropriate, I took the more impertinent route. After returning my gaze back to her, my only response was, “Of course he did Vicky. He is literally a giant dick.” Buyer beware.

After 18 months of dating, she stayed at my apartment for a weekend to celebrate my birthday. While preparing breakfast on my “special” day, I asked her to finish cooking some bacon so that I could change. While in my room, I heard her screaming and cursing that she had burnt the meat. I assured her that I had more in my fridge and told her not to fret but this rationale had unmistakably mired me into a dispute that would last for the next 45 minutes. Close to its zenith, she emphatically started throwing clothes into her bag, threatening to leave.

Knowing that she’d have nowhere else in the city to go (she was from a different state), I stood in front of the door and begged her to stay.

“Get out of my way.”

“Look, you’re angry. That’s okay, we don’t have to talk right now but where are you going to go? Please stay.”

“Get the fuck out of my way!”

As I implored her to talk to me, she grabbed one of my steak knives from the kitchen, pushed it up against my skin and pitilessly repeated herself. I opened the door and let her walk out of my life. We spoke hours later but we never completely mended our relationship. It was the end.

Years have passed but I still see her every week in the streets of Manhattan. It’s not actually her, obviously, but it will be one feature that brings me back; a stranger’s hair, demeanor, or clothing. Sometimes this vicarious stranger – well, she makes me wanna die.

However cliché, we have all considered what it means to be in love. (Here’s my take.) Surely, the modernist poet, W.H. Auden, brooded heavily on this. His conversational poem, O Tell Me the Truth About Love, delves into many of love’s attributes but which stanza is true? If the subject of “love” in the poem could somehow be hidden from the reader, one would feel quite agitated from the hodgepodge of contradictory descriptors employed to describe the same thing. Whatever your sentiments, the answer to Auden’s questions remains a resounding “Yes.”

Will it come like a change in the weather?
Will its greeting be courteous or rough?
Will it alter my life altogether?
O tell me the truth about love.

Friend Threshold: The maximal amount of friends or loved ones a person chooses to maintain. All other associations will either be discarded immediately or left underdeveloped.

What’s your number? Did you reach it? How old were you? Moreover, how did it feel?

I ponder this out of sheer ignorance. The idea of having a myriad of friends, a sweet social network, remains a foreign concept to me, and not by choice. Without my consent, I’ve become a loner, and given my haphazard track record, one might even conclude that it was purposeful and assiduously sought out.

After spending another birthday alone last week, I started digging into what this figurative “friend threshold” is. (Oddly enough, you could take it literally as well. Most notably, Facebook has a harsh 5,000 friend limit; consider yourself warned.) From all the blogs, forlorn songs, confessional websites, historical novels, etc., one would effortlessly conclude that you’re more likely to run into someone seeking friendship than someone not willing to squander any of their social time. And yet, each time I fail making that connection, it ironically connects me to that feeling that’s been sinking. I’m no stranger to Miss Misery. As I become mired in dialogue going nowhere, she pours the whiskey, listens silently, and never forgets to top me off.

In part, I blame the city. Active New Yorkers appear, at the very least, brimmed with companionship. Their ships have boarded and departed, and there I am in some makeshift “Cast Away”raft clumsily paddling towards their modern vessel. In all honestly, I’m not advocating to readily accept every human as your best friend. (We have dogs for that.) But there is plenty of middle ground that’s rarely granted to expatriates like myself.

I’ll give an example.

I organized a pizza party with my roommates and we all chipped in on spreading the word. As luck would have it, the apartment across from us is occupied by three women our age, so I knocked on their door to invite them. Within 10 seconds, my neighbor made it seem as though my presence was that of an intrusive gadfly, despite just standing in the hallway.

“Hey! I’m Single Guy in NYC, I’m not sure if you remember me but I’m you’re neighbor.”

“Okay…” she sighed, hardening her grip on her door frame.

“Well, I just wanted to let you know that my roommates and I are having a party next week and, if you’re all free, you should come hang out.”

“Right, maybe. Thanks.”

The door closed immediately afterwards.

You might think she’s just shy but she’s really not. On the contrary, from what I’ve gathered living on the same floor as her, she’s a lively person. Most likely your average beautiful urban 20-something year old just relishing in their prime. And probably comfortable with her friend threshold. Pizza party? Ha. What’s in it for me?

Lying naked and winded, fresh out of cigarettes – kicking the habit anyway – on your bed as you begged for another story with your ear pressed to my chest to feel every vocal vibration, we came to appreciate how affectedly we loved previous lovers. It was another narrative woven into our garbs but it was a best-seller. Doesn’t that count for anything?

The stories I told on days like those could fill volumes, although it was difficult to pinpoint the reason for your curious penchant. Maybe you simply enjoyed the sound of my voice or wanted to damn the silence in the room. Surely you wouldn’t request the same from a hubristic drunkard.

Although our rich companionship is often aggrandized in my head, the intensity and pathos still feels real. I now realize why you asked for a tall tale or factoid; you wanted all of me. After giving myself to you physically, you only wished to couple these ephemeral moments with something to take away. I’ll never have a chance to say it outside of this frivolous blog but I miss that and I’ll find it again. Only this time, I’ll be sure to reciprocate the offer.